


We Don't Have So Much

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [56]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Dean Sings, Domestic, Domestic Dean Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Foreplay, Freckles, Holidays, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Series, Rough Sex, Smut, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two days before Thanksgiving, it begins to snow in Chicago. Some people who don’t know any better would see this as a winter wonderland. They might write some shitty poem about how magical the streets look frosted over. An ode could be written to the screens on their windows, which rattle from the force of the wind.</p><p>Fuck that. Sam turns from the living room window and stomps back to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Have So Much

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melacreature](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melacreature/gifts).



It hasn’t stopped raining for three days.

Sam’s first mistake is to assume that it is still only raining on this Tuesday morning, two days before Thanksgiving.

Whatever the weather sounds like on any given day, it likes to do the opposite. The sound of rain masks the fact that it has been sleeting for several hours; at some point, sleet morphs into pure, angry snow. Eventually, snow covers everything on their block. Wind whips the mess of rain and snow and the temperature drops. Anything left outside is covered by snow as thick as frosting. Some people who don’t know any better would see this as a winter wonderland. They might write some shitty poem about how magical the streets look frosted over. An ode could be written to the screens on their windows, which rattle from the force of the wind.

Fuck that. Sam turns from the living room window and stomps back to bed.

Six in the morning is too early for the other body in bed to comprehend being awake. Sam lifts the covers up and slides in, immediately sticking his feet near Dean’s. In retaliation, Dean snorts in his sleep, which is a better outcome than Sam expected. The last of Sam’s strength for anything more than laying around is used to text Juana. She pings back an answer two seconds later: “Stay home. I’m giving everyone a half-day anyway. I need your ass after this awful holiday so you better show up.”

Pushing through the weather next week is future Sam’s problem. Current Sam tosses his phone back onto his nightstand and covers as much of himself in blankets as possible. Dean shifts, bothered by all the movement in their bed, and Sam takes the opportunity as it presents itself. Mid-shift, Sam gloms himself onto Dean. Chest to chest, this position is a little awkward, but it’s warm. Seeking comfort, Sam tucks himself away under Dean’s chin and sighs. Their sheets rustle. Through their blinds, gray light from outside soaks in and makes everything dim.

Two days before Thanksgiving and it’s snowing like January.

In any season, Dean sleeps with his mouth open. Today is no exception.

The Henley and pajama pants keep the slumbering beast warm underneath the pile of blankets, quilts, and eight-hundred thread count sheets Dean bought on sale last winter. Sam is practically naked in boxers and a light t-shirt. But he can’t sleep as covered up as Dean can.

The steady cadence of Dean’s exhales against Sam’s hair nearly lulls him back to sleep. His eyes droop and he can feel the tempting pull of lethargy. There is no place to be today. Dean has Tuesdays off anyway; he only works three days a week now. When he isn’t at work, he is at the museum, supposedly volunteering but he often comes home with recipes he swapped with the ladies at the gift shop. And if he’s not there, he’s at home, cleaning or cooking while he listens to a record. Last week, he vacuumed to a Queen album; Sam forgets which one. But he walked in on Dean singing to Bohemian Rhapsody and spinning the vacuum around.

Three weeks ago, Dean learned how to bake bread. It’s called _pan amasado_. Few recipes turn out well for anyone on the first try, but Dean pulled it off. Sam devoured four buns with butter and apricot jam. The house smelled like a bakery for days.

Sam pushes his nose into Dean’s shirt.

In retaliation, Dean kicks Sam’s feet. Cautiously, Sam peeks up to see if Dean is awake. It doesn’t sound like he is, but then again, his brother is a master at pretending to be asleep to avoid things—things like waking up early, having conversations about emotions, and committing to accompanying Sam to work related functions as his plus one. In the process of looking at Dean to confirm if he is truly asleep, the freckles on Dean’s right cheek distract Sam. He counts twelve.

Once, when they were working a FBI hunt, Sam caught Dean putting concealer over the bridge of his nose. The reasoning was that no one takes freckles seriously, god dammit.

Pushing up, Sam temporarily pops out from his cocoon of blankets and Dean to press his mouth over the cluster of twelve circular, dusty spots. It’s not so much a kiss as it is the ability to have his lips pressed here without rush, worry, or anxiety. Their bed smells like sleep. Sam bumps their noses together. He isn’t sleepy anymore. One bunch is only the beginning. Four smaller freckles create a bridge that curves upwards towards Dean’s eye, hiding out in the crinkles there.

Want. Sam taps his chin against Dean’s. Want.

This summer was good to Dean. Memories of warmer, sunnier days are left in the healthy tan Dean has held onto since late August. A week went by in July where they managed to escape responsibility and spend their time on the beach eating hot dogs, drinking beer, and destroying every sand castle they made. All the sun has made the freckles on Dean’s ears more prominent. Sam nips at Dean’s earlobe.

Legs entwined with Sam’s move around.

The first sign of Dean being awake is his hand moving. He doesn’t smack Sam or grab Sam’s ass, which is so surprising that Sam is caught off guard when a palm pushes against his face. “GitoffmeSam,” is snarled as they separate. Dean’s eyes scrunch closed in an attempt to continue sleeping without Sam plastered against him. Fuck no. Sam is awake. And he can’t get to that secret patch on Dean’s neck, where freckles mark the spot and his toes curl without fail. The struggle is real.

Dean shoves.

Sam rolls forward.

Dean waves his hand, searching for Sam’s face again.

Sam leans back, ducks down, slips his legs over and in between Dean’s to lock him in a hold.

Dean counters with an elbow to Sam’s ribs.

Sam grunts at the contact, but fights on despite his brief injury.

“God dammit, Sam!” Dean is about to lurch off the side of the bed. “I was tryin’ to sleep!” Before Sam can defend himself, Dean continues his tirade. “Man’s gotta have some right to sleep without becoming a fuckin’ Easy Bake Oven— _move_!” But it’s too late. Sam saw a moment of weakness as Dean was turning over to potentially escape. In a sweep that’s part elegance and part training that has been hardwired into him, Sam manages to drag Dean back towards the center of their bed and lay him flat on his back. This is done with the utmost care in concern to Dean’s knee, but Sam doesn’t allow an inch for hope that Dean will be moving any time soon.

Sam acts before Dean can open his mouth to complain.

Every last trace of drowsiness evaporates as Sam straddles Dean, hands over Dean’s wrists, and steals a rough, messy kiss. Dean is hesitant to open up, to allow the kiss to happen completely. He surrenders the second Sam releases his wrists. The kickback happens; a kiss just as rough and hungry is returned, with firm hands immediately gripping onto Sam’s ass. Their hips rise. Dean breathes out as their mouths separate, a pleased look in his eyes at feeling that Sam is already hard.

No one speaks just yet.

They don’t kiss enough. Sam aims to fix that right here, right now.

He slows Dean down. They’ve got all day. Sam’s lips have never been as full as Dean’s, but he has a clever mouth and a willing tongue. Their noses bump. Teeth drag. Every kiss turns into something deeper, something more languid and luscious. Surrounded by the familiarity of their bed, in the comfort of their room, it doesn’t matter how cold it is outside. Being on top of Dean, grinding down in leisurely circles, kissing him until his mouth is red—Dean makes it warm wherever they are.

An arch is made. Dean sighs.

Temptation lures Sam astray. He forgets his freckle mission as their cocks line up and the pace quickens. The wind outside whips against the house as the bed begins to creak. Kisses shift to biting and marking what their teeth can get hold of. Their rhythm sweeps over from careful to fervent.

“Stop,” Sam murmurs, bringing his hands up from their bed to Dean’s chest. “Mmph, Dean…”

Snorts of displeasure are made. “What? What’s wrong?” His eyes are half-lidded and his hair is the product of a solid nine hours of sleep. He licks the top of his lip—another distraction.

Focus. “I wanna take things slow.”

He might as well have suggested that there are aliens running around on the roof. “Slow? Whaddya call this?” To Dean, foreplay is an activity that should not take more than five to ten minutes. Any more than that and someone is two steps away from feigning a headache and falling asleep.

“I call it your hands on my ass and thirty seconds away from lift off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not yet.” Sam leans down once again. He calms the angry beast, gently brushing his fingertips over the ginger scruff on Dean’s chin. “Just stay.”

Sam feels the rumbled response. “Does it look like I’m goin’ anywhere?” This is ignored. Dean huffs, rolls his eyes, and lies still like a dead fish. He can be that way for now. Sam noses Dean’s jaw line, enjoying the scratch and the rub of the scruff that he encourages be grown out. They don’t do this often. Never have. There wasn’t time. Heat has escaped their nest of blankets and sheets. Sam settles back in without a problem. The person underneath him, however, continues to be tense.

“Relax,” Sam snips. “You’ll like this.”

“I can’t relax,” is growled back. “It’s too… quiet… Sam, c’mon.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Shut up.”

“Fuck, it’s not even eight…”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna blow you.”

That gets his attention.

“But,” Sam adds, shuffling down. “You need to shut the fuck up.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Too quiet.”

Underneath the covers, Sam moves Dean’s Henley out of the way, pushing it up to uncover Dean’s middle. Once that’s done, the drawstring pajama pants are the next target. He won’t bother taking them off—too awkward. But he’s after this stretch of freckles that span across Dean’s hip bones. His middle is softer than it used to be, and all that matters to Sam is that the freckles are still there. There are no new scars on Dean, except for the two over his knee from surgery.

“Tell me,” Sam murmurs, settled in the vee of Dean’s legs. “What you got’n the fridge for Thanksgiving.”

From above, Sam hears a muffled, “Are you serious?”

“You haven’t let me look.”

“Can you blow me while I’m talkin’ food?”

“Of course I can, asshole.”

The voice above the blankets and sheets is still hesitant. “You won’t… bite down, will you?”

A smack to Dean’s thighs causes a well-deserved wince. “Start talking or I’m not blowing.”

Throughout all of their—stupidly unnecessary—conversation, Sam has been tracing circles over Dean’s hip bones. The familiar, steady touch has kept Dean half hard. A deep breath is taken by both of them. Sam is grateful for the length and size of their bed. He isn’t uncomfortable as he grinds his own hips into the mattress for friction. Eyes closed and with his right hand clasped around the base, Sam takes the tip of Dean into his mouth. Slow. Inch by inch, Sam swallows Dean up, practiced and patient. He slicks Dean up. Time is nothing but theirs. All around him is a darkness he does not fear, a wind that cannot pass through the solid walls of their home, and the smell of fabric softener, coffee, and sleep without nightmares.

Heavy. Sam opens his mouth more. Thick.

“Mashed potatoes,” Dean punches out, his right leg bucking. “Uhn…”

Mouth slipped off, hovering near a patch of freckles near the root of Dean’s cock, Sam murmurs. “Skins on or off?”

Dean draws in a sharp breath the second Sam bites down over the patch. “Don’t be stupid, Sam. Fuck. Shit… skins off…” The stupid comment is graciously ignored. Sam’s fingers trace the length of Dean’s cock, nudging the sensitive head, enjoying the twitch there. A mark is made. It will fade in a few days. The freckles stand out, enhanced by the pressure of Sam’s teeth and tongue. Another constellation calls Sam’s attention. This one is on the plane of Dean’s left thigh, which presents a problem. Sam has his hand squeeze. Dean groans. Peeking up, Sam can see that Dean has one arm tossed over his eyes and the other over his mouth.

A tap to Dean’s middle prompts the next dish. Sam solves his previous problem, deciding not to bite. He licks the span of the freckles while simultaneously stroking Dean’s cock with a firm grip from base to tip and back down again.

“Fuck.” Dean shivers. “Buttered corn. Fuck. Uh… with… bacon pieces mixed… mixed in. God dammit… Sam. Uhn. Quit… quit playin’ around.” The beast is vexed. Sam’s mouth is everywhere but where Dean craves it. He has to appreciate being worked up; it’ll make him grateful later. That’s what Thanksgiving is about—gratitude.

“I’m gonna blow you until you reach the edge,” Sam mutters. His voice matches the darkness underneath the covers. “Then you can call the shots.”

Time for a response is not given. Sam blows on the portion of skin he has licked, eliciting a shudder. Dean might claim not to response to foreplay, but his cock does. Sam feels generous. In one broad swipe of his tongue, he licks Dean from the underside of his cock to the bloated head. He finds a place to settle his hands. Freckles trail all the way down to Dean’s toes, but Sam’s cock is also impatient. This will happen again.

“Turkey or ham, Dean.” Sam speaks with his lips pressed to the inside of Dean’s right thigh.

“Both.” Dean twists in place. “Got you both.”

He’ll spend all day cooking with a piece of fabric around his waist that he insists isn’t an apron. It’s just the two of them this Thanksgiving. Mrs. Martinez is in Mexico; Kevin sends his regards; Garth sent them a card. Various families in the neighborhood have invited them over if they’d like, but each and every invitation was politely declined. Something has been defrosting in the fridge for almost a week but it was covered in foil so Sam couldn’t see. The crisper is packed full.

“Keep talking,” Sam orders. Heat has returned to their bed. He can no longer hear the wind outside. As slow as before, he wraps his mouth around Dean’s cock. Slow. Unhurried. Savoring. Dean is soft here. A few freckles reach the base of his cock but stop there. Sam watches the freckles flush over as Dean fattens and twitches with the slick pressure of Sam’s lips.

“Bread… fuck… I’m baking biscuits… and stuffing. Motherf… ahh…” Two dishes called out are rewarded with suction. “Shit. Shit. Sam. Uh… shit… I don’t…”

Sam pops off—to breathe and take a pause. “Mac and cheese?” he asks, hopeful, wiping spit off from the edge of his mouth.

“You…” Dean groans out, his chest rising in frustration. “Yes, fuck, I’ll make you god damned mac and cheese, Sammy, please…”

“And a salad?”

“I bought spinach,” is whined, “and I got vinaigrette…”

“Pecan pie?” Sam’s tongue flickers over the tip.

Dean hiccups. “Yeah. I got that stuff. Make… make it tomorrow…”

“I bought wine.” Sam presses his fingertips down onto the sides of Dean’s hips and creates pink marks.

“Sam, for fuck’s sake, quit yammering… please.”

“I want a song after this too.” Sam might as well go for broke.

“Fine…!”

Swift, sudden, and merciless, Sam swallows Dean to the base. His hair falls forward, a curtain around him, until Dean is bold and reaches down to card his fingers through it. Now is not the time to be slow. Slick. Sam slurps. He adds spit. He makes it all wet enough so that Dean can hear it, so he can know the exact melodic rhythm of his cock pushing against the back of Sam’s throat.

And then he stops—pops off completely and sits up, tossing the blankets off of them.

And before he can suggest anything, he is tossed onto the bed by a strong tilt of Dean’s hips and the flex of the muscles in his arms that hold Sam down in place. On his stomach, Sam is spread out. Frustrated hands yank the boxers off of Sam and a palm smacks the roundest part of his ass. Sam basks in the sting of it. He fights Dean, bucking against him, forcing him to earn it. Work for it. A tube of lube floats over from Sam’s nightstand, which isn’t supposed to happen, but Sam doesn’t mention it. For now, it is convenient. He ain’t complaining.

“This,” Dean growls into Sam’s right ear, slicking himself up, “is gonna hurt.”

“Good,” Sam hisses. “Make it hurt, Dean.”

All mention of food is forgotten. Sam couldn’t recite the menu for ten million dollars. It does hurt. Dean thrusts into him—forceful and unforgiving. The drag and burn of it has them both grasping for the bed as anchor. He’s in so deep, so fast, Sam’s eyes flutter. Not a moment is given to adjust, but the right angle is hit from the very first drive forward. Lube and spit allows Dean to pound into Sam with ease. The headboard knocks and thumps against the wall. Dean adjusts their weight, his hips building in momentum. He manages to balance himself enough to bring his right hand to Sam’s hair; he grips a handful and twists.

“This what you wanted, Sammy?” The thrusts halt. Dean winds them both up by stopping completely, buried so deep, pulling so hard on Sam’s hair that his eyes water. “Cause all you need to do…” his voice lulls into thunder, with vibrations felt against the muscles in Sam’s back. “…is ask for it.”

Pressure builds in the base of Sam’s spine.

Dean demolishes every ounce of control Sam possessed. One sweep back, Dean nearly slips out. One profound plunge forward, Dean fuses them back together. Chest to back. Hip to hip. Marks are left by a mouth fueled by each sound Sam cries out. His back and neck are covered in half the time it took Sam to do the same. Wrangled. Wrestled. Wrung out. Fucked by the timing of something inside their blood that screams ownership—complete and absolute. Sam shouts.

No hand reaches down to help; Sam comes untouched. The muscles in his lower stomach clench and he bears down on Dean with as much pressure as he can. He comes all over their sheets. He feels Dean spill over inside him, growling and panting near Sam’s ear, pressing a shaky, fragile kiss there.

The nightstand has moved six inches from the bed. There are scuff marks from the headboard on the wall.

For five minutes, no one speaks—no one has the ability.

Outside, the weather hasn’t changed. This is told by a dim, fuzzy observation that their room isn’t any lighter than when they started. It must still be snowing. The scent of their room has changed, however, and Sam basks in his sensory thoughts, preferring not to think at all. He winces as Dean pulls out, and sighs into his pillow as two fingers slip in. This touch is not rough, nor is it hurried. Dean noses the back of Sam’s neck, then places kisses all the way to Sam’s cheek, where tears are lapped up.

“Sam.” Dean means to whisper, but his throat is shot.

“Dean.” Sam also means to whisper, but his throat is more shot.

It could snow through Christmas. They’ve got enough food in the house to last a long time, and they’ve got enough lube to make do.

Tender, gentle fingers pull out, but rub just in case there is soreness. There is. Sam doesn’t mind it.

Dean breathes in. Sam breathes out. Care is taken to roll Sam an inch away from the wet spot. His hair is brushed back and smoothed out. And in the quiet that has once again settled into their house, Dean sings, low and rich. “Remember when you picked me up and you put me in a straight line.” The tune is light; the voice that sings to it is resonant. “You looked at me and said that it would be fine. We take our time to find the silver lining.” Sam’s eyes close. “We can make these crying waters into wine. We’ll be alright. We’ll be alright.”

He’ll spend all day cooking and fretting and asking Sam a million times to set a timer. In between, they might catch a few minutes of football, but they might also nap. And dinner will be delicious. Sam will set the table and light two candles. They’ll sit there through it all, until the candles melt down.

A hand splays across Sam’s chest.

The voice echoes deeper than it intends. Softly, a trace of something somber appears. “Remember when you found me on the cold ground.” Sam places his hand over the one on his chest. “You were looking up as the sky was looking down. And you said… that you were jealous of the bright stars. I said… darling, you’ll be brighter than they all are.”

Peace returns. Sam traces over freckled fingers. Dean’s voice lifts. “So then I picked you up and I put you in a straight line. Cause they, they don’t know our heart. And they won’t break us apart. And we, we, don’t have so much. But we, all we need is us.”

Now Sam falls back asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i know this is late, but here's a late night dessert to have after you've devoured tasty dinner and had time with loved ones. <3
> 
> i'm thankful you're all here. i hope you've all had a wonderful day. <333
> 
> this is for M, who has waited (somewhat) patiently for freckle fic.
> 
> the song here is "silver linings" by lee dewyze.


End file.
